Bad Karma

BAD

KARMA

A Novel

By

Pat Crudden

INFORMATION

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Pat Crudden

All characters are fictional

Any relation to people living or dead is unintentional

City representations are not accurate

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this e-book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

PART TWO

BILOXI

PART THREE

PART FOUR

INFORMATION

DEDICATION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

To Lindsey Ayres

And the late great Richard Stark

PROLOGUE

BELFAST

JULY 11

11:15 PM

Vance saw his opening.

He stepped close to the widow and said, Mary?

When the old woman turned to answer him, Vance twisted from the hip, grunted and slammed her in the face with his right fist, crushing her lips against her teeth and shattering her jaw. She gasped, crumpled away from him and fell, cracking her seventy-five year old head off the hard oak-strip flooring, just as Vance landed on his front foot, caught his balance and shuffled backwards.

Weird, he thought as he flexed his fist and tried to shake the sting out of his hand.

His wrist was still stiff and sore from the vicious beating he had laid on Nik the day before, and when he had clipped the widow he had felt a jarring bolt of not-quite pain, not-quite pleasure streak up his arm and cascade over his shoulders before ebbing away.

He had liked it. A lot.

That felt like punching an electric sponge.

Vance wasn’t a big guy --five foot six and a hundred eighty pounds—but he was fit. And solid. And mean. And quick as a twitch. And he had big hands with gnarled, cartilage-filled knuckles and thick wrists that stretched his black shirt-cuffs to their outer limits.

And he knew how to throw a punch.

He looked down.

Mary McCloskey had lost consciousness and lay in a heap facing away from him on the second floor studio’s faded and scuffed floor. A twinkle caught his eye; he squinted and saw a shallow crimson pool of blood forming on the oak slats under the widow’s ruined chin. Her wispy, salt-and-pepped hair lay in gentle curves and figure-eights along the surface of her quickly darkening blood.

Her mouth gaped open along a jagged line of splayed flesh and yellow bone at the point where Vance’s gold MP service ring had literally split her chin in half. Her breathing was wheezy and rapid and shallow and didn’t sound like it would be continuing for very long.

Vance stepped over the sleeping widow, turned and kicked her in the temple until she stiffened and began to vibrate. Her small bony fingers splayed straight out from rod-stiff arms, her frail chicken-chest puffed out and her eyes snapped open in terrified confusion. They were so open, so wide that for a moment Vance thought they might pop right out of their sockets… but after a few seconds her retinas deflated somewhat, her lids fluttered closed and she sunk back down to the floor. He kicked her twice more in the head and then she was still.

He checked his watch. 23:17.

Right on time.

He thumped downstairs and out the front door, turned left and strode to a weather-beaten set of green plastic patio furniture in the front yard. He reached under the table and removed a black nylon duffel bag which contained some tools, some spray-cans and also a .303 bolt-action Enfield P14 rifle, the gun he had smuggled out of Fort Benning mere hours before his in-absentia court martial, so many years ago. He then turned around and marched back into the house. He locked the front door and ran up the stairs, turning the studio lights off with a keypad that was mounted on the stairwell wall.

He moved to the closet and as he stepped over the widow’s corpse he noticed her mouth was still open; one half of an upper dental plate had fallen out onto the floor and was now mired in the pool of her rapidly congealing blood. He looked closer and saw that one of Mary’s fake teeth, an incisor, had snapped off at the gum line and lay by itself on the dry floor, eight inches from its blood-filled seat.

He shook his head and smiled.

Dentures. I knew it.

Standing there, staring at her, in this state, he felt…nothing. Maybe some irritation at her being home, rather than at her sister’s birthday party --where she was supposed to be until at least midnight—but other than that, he was okay with chilling her out. He had to get his job done.

Besides, it was her fault for being here. According to his intel, she was supposed to be staying at her sister’s house, halfway across town.

Getting in had been easy; when he turned it on, Vance could be a real charmer. Despite his gruff, pug-like face, he had a bashful smile and could turn his voice into warm-whipped butter when needed. A few kind words(thank you for your kindness), a gentle smile(I surely don’t mean to intrude), a hurry-up incentive(flight for Budapest in two hours), re-affirmation of faith(It’s Our Lord’s work) and ten minutes later he was in the widow’s studio, holding a cup of tea and waiting for the right moment to end her life.

He turned to the cross—it was sitting on a grey marble pedestal- and felt a shiver run up his leg as he took it in.

Wow.

Widely regarded as a masterpiece of celtic art, the cross had been carved by Ireland’s most famous sculptor, Eamonn McCloskey. Eamonn spent almost twenty five years of his life etching and chipping the cross out of a large piece of five thousand year old petrified wood he had stumbled across while trudging through a dry swamp just south of the cliffs of Moher, in County Clare.

Vance peered closely and watched entranced as intricate phrases and delicate faces gradually materialized from the jet black ironwood. The front edifice of the cross read like a blackened stone relieved pictorial, McCloskey’s exquisite chips and precision strikes with his diamond tipped chisels showing Christ’s life from birth, his teachings in the temple, his crucifixion and ultimately his resurrection and ascension into Heaven. He watched Christ die on his cross in front of a stone audience, the look amongst their intricately detailed faces a mixture of glaring anguish and ogling triumph. He shook his head, amazed that a mere human could carve something so breathtaking out of such a hard and unyielding surface as petrified wood.

His wristwatch beeped. He blinked.

Fuck.

Get to work.

Vance lifted the Plexiglas display case off its pedestal, raised it over the cross and set it on the floor. He crouched, turned the duffel bag over and dumped out its contents, grabbed a roll of plastic shrink wrap and wound it around and around the cross, gift wrapping it. He righted the duffel bag and stretched open the zippered flaps, and then took four small cubes of wood, each four inches by four inches by four inches. He placed the cubes onto the floor of the bag and then lifted the cross off the table and placed it in the duffel bag, laying it on the four cubes of wood. It was a tight fit but it worked fine.

Vance removed two aerosol cans filled with expanding foam insulation from a side pocket in the duffel and held one in each hand. He shook them vigorously, then bent over, turned them upside down and put his hands inside the duffel bag. He depressed the triggers and the bag filled with expanding polyurethane foam. It flowed under and around and on top of the cross and rapidly grew to fifty times its contained size. He emptied the cans, threw them into the bag along with the empty cardboard cling wrap holder and the teacup and quickly zipped the bag up. The foam would fill the bag like air in a balloon and quickly harden to the consistency of Styrofoam, protecting the cross from any damage during transportation. Once the cross was in a safe place the foam could be cut away and the plastic cling wrap removed.

He stood, stepped to the widow, grabbed her ankles, dragged her into the compact washroom, dropped her on the floor and used his boot to stuff her corpse between the toilet and vanity. He grabbed a brown hand towel off its hook beside the sink, walked back into the studio and used it to clean up the pool of blood that had accumulated.

He had to wash out the towel a few times and after the fourth rinse he stood and looked around. The floor looked fine.

He checked his watch.

Time to go.

He tossed the hand towel in the toilet, closed the washroom door and stepped to the bag.

He ran his right arm through one of the duffel’s carrying handles and ran his left arm through the other. He shrugged and the duffel bag settled onto his shoulders and back. He could feel the foam inside the bag, shifting and bubbling as it settled around the cross and stiffened up.

He picked up the Enfield, checked its load and looked around one last time, his eyes settling on the bay window.

The curtains. He walked to the window and slid the heavy white drapes aside, exposing a great view of Milltown Cemetery, its vast blackness waiting for him just across the street.

On his way down the stairs he set the lights with the wall timer.

11:22 PM

Vance reached the first floor, turned and marched into the kitchen. He picked up the phone and pulled out a small slip of paper that had a telephone number printed on one side. He dialed the number.

He heard a click and a computerized female voice said with a proper British accent, Welcome! Please input the correct time, using the twenty four hour system and then press the ‘pound’ Key.

He checked his watch, inputted 2323 and pressed #.

The voice said, Thank you. Please enter the target time, using the twenty four hour system and press the ‘pound’ key.

He punched in 0000 and pressed #.

The voice said, Message received. Thank you for using Hawkeye Ordnance.

He used a cloth to wipe down the phone, more out of habit than anything else.

I’m all in now. He picked up the rifle and walked out the front door.

11:24 PM

Vance crossed unnoticed over Falls Road and through a large pair of rusted iron gates into Milltown Cemetery, Belfast’s biggest Catholic burial grounds. He skulked along the interior of the black iron boundary fence, peering through the gaps until he had a good frontal view of Mary McCloskey’s small two-storey house.

He crouched in the darkness and turned in a slow, deliberate circle, checking his sightlines for security cameras. He spotted one, sitting on top of a wooden street light pole. About seventy feet to his left and across Falls Road, it slowly swiveled towards him. He crouched down and squinted as the front of the boxy white camera stopped short, paused and then slowly rotated away from him. He nodded.

Looks good as any. He shrugged the duffel bag onto the ground and kneeled down behind it. He set the Enfield on the bag and sighted down the barrel, adjusting his seat until he had a perfect view of the second floor window.

He sat back against an ancient-looking black granite headstone and checked his watch. 11:28:43.

Ten minutes.

He rubbed his eyes, rubbed his face. Ran his fingers through his short, dirty blond hair. He was an okay-looking, maybe ordinary guy, blue eyes, big chin, nice teeth, good dresser…but any time he tried to fit in, his nose gave him away. Twisted and scarred, it had been broken and re-set so many times over the years that he now had a hard time breathing through it without it making a barely audible--but completely maddening- whistle.

So Vance breathed through his mouth most of the time.

He licked his lips with a dry tongue; the cocaine he had snorted earlier at the funeral home was dissipating, its residuals shooting through his body, rubbing his nerve endings the wrong way, making his skin itch and his fingers twitch as it worked its way through his bloodstream.

Not good. He took a deep breath, held the soupy Irish air in his lungs for a few seconds and then blew it through his mouth, puffing his cheeks out. He closed his eyes.

Chill. He took another breath. After a moment he exhaled and held his right hand out, palm down. His long fingers hung loose and relaxed.

Better. He sighed but jumped when a distant scratching noise caught his attention. He jerked his head left, peered through the wrought iron fence and spotted a mangy grey dog across Falls Road, its long nails clicking on the cracked concrete footpath as it jogged away from him. He watched as it stopped, sniffed the air, turned right, darted into a red gravel lane between two houses and disappeared.

Vance shook his head and chuckled softly.

Getting old. He looked down and patted his pockets, looking for his butts.

He pulled a rumpled pack of Marlboros out of his jacket pocket, shook out a smoke and fired up. As he drew on the cigarette he turned and gazed over the vast, dark cemetery to Belfast. He watched disinterestedly as massive pillars of thick grayish brown smoke from countless fires pock marking the black and gold cityscape snaked their way skyward, towards a blanket of purplish-black storm clouds.

He checked his hand.

No quiver.

He waited.

11:38 PM

Vance watched two figures stroll quietly up Kilgreggan Lane, heading for the widow’s house. They split up when they reached the cobblestone driveway; Vance could tell from their size that Adrian continued on to the front door while Mike lurked in the driveway.

Just like he’s supposed to. He peered through the gun sight, his heart skipping when he located Mike, skulking in the sultry darkness between the two houses.

There you are.

He checked his watch. 11:39:49

Ten seconds.

He tracked the driveway for distance, then dropped the Enfield’s sight onto Mike’s torso. He twisted the scope a quarter-inch, then and eighth until it settled perfectly on Mike’s left breast.

Cadillac.

He touched the trigger and smiled as his finger caressed its smooth, curved metal surface.

Five seconds.

He counted down.

11:40 PM

Vance exhaled, pulled the trigger and shot Mike through his upper torso, just as the starless night exploded behind him. Leviathan, bass-thumping yellow, green, blue, red and gold fireworks bounced off thick grey clouds fat with dirty rain as Belfast’s protestant population celebrated their Independence Day.

He watched excitedly through the iron fence as his target slumped forward and fell to his knees, clutching his chest.

Yeah, he thought to himself, proud of his shot.

Still got it.

Mike stayed on his knees for about five seconds or so, then un-gracefully flopped face-first onto the wet driveway.

He shanked another bullet into the chamber and set his sight on the second floor window.

Adrian should be on the second floor by now.

Vance figured he had a fifty-fifty chance; either Adrian would scope out the house, making sure to check everywhere, including the closet and washroom, or he would walk to the window and tap three times, signaling Mike to come up. If Adrian checked the washroom and found the widow, then Vance would have to re-enter the house and gun him down. If he tapped the second-story window, then Vance had a perfect shot for at least a moment or two.

There was no question: He was hoping for the latter option. Vance had supreme confidence in his abilities –both physical and mental—and he had no doubt he could best the big man on the second floor in a gunfight. But hand-to-hand, close-quarters combat with Adrian in such a compact space like the widow’s studio was simply suicide. He had seen Adrian take people apart like they were made of play-doh on past jobs they had been on together… most of those people much bigger than Vance.

He’ll tap it.

Vance sighed and checked his watch. 11:40:48.

Twelve seconds.

He waited.

11:41 PM

The widow’s timer beeped and the second floor lights blinked on in the McCloskey house just as Vance pulled the Enfield’s trigger and shot Adrian, who had been standing perfectly framed behind the big bay window on the second floor.

He watched Adrian’s head snap back just before the big man’s body fell forward, noisily crashing through the bay window. He landed on the porch roof, rolled off it and slammed into the patio furniture on the front lawn, his body mass smashing the cheap plastic table into hundreds of pieces.

Gotcha. Vance smirked as he lowered the Enfield. Thanks for comin out.

Suddenly a light blinked on in the second floor window of the house beside the widow’s, the house she shared a driveway with. The curtains parted and Vance spotted an old man, wearing a white undershirt and faded blue boxer shorts, looking out the window towards the widow’s front lawn. He was holding the thick curtains open with his right hand and talking into what appeared to be a cordless phone in his left.

Tine to go.

Vance grabbed the Enfield and its two spent bullet casings, stood, dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his boot, shucked the duffel bag onto his shoulders, turned and swiftly strode deeper into the cemetery, dodging mossy green and brown granite headstones as he vanished into the necropolis under cover of the black, misty rain that had begun to fall.

PART ONE

SEVEN DAYS AGO

Saturday July 4

6:46 AM

Mike flinched when he heard the gunshot. He turned, just in time to see the guard’s body hit the tile floor. He had been singly concentrating on cutting the hinges with his torch when he heard a muffled thump.

What the fuck?

He looked over his shoulder at his partner Adrian, who was frowning and re-holstering a small, silenced pistol, the Chinese kind with the suppressor built into the barrel.

Adrian turned and noticed Mike glaring at him. What?

Nice, Mike scowled and spat. What the fuck was that?

Not my fault, bud, Adrian replied. Fuckin dude’s --He shot out his right hand and checked the time on his wristwatch-- fourteen minutes early.

Mike switched off the loudly hissing plasma torch. A handsome man, he stood six feet tall with a full head of brown hair and long legs. He was athletic, but in more of a long distance runner type than a weightlifter type. Drunken women sometimes told him he had ‘the look,’ the rugged, slightly dangerous loner persona that attracted bored housewives desperately seeking excitement.

But Mike didn’t think so. He thought he looked just like any other forty year old white guy you pass on the street.

He glowered at Adrian through round, wire-rimmed eyeglasses, his dark brown eyes full of hostility. Even though his job entailed varying amounts of danger, Mike had an aversion for excess violence.

His partner had zero problem with it though. Mike had worked with Adrian before and had witnessed first-hand Adrian’s capacity for eliminating whoever or whatever was in his way.

Couldn’t you have just shot him in the leg or something?

You watch too much TV. Let’s get this done, Mike. Focus.

Mike wasn’t ready to focus. Adrian’s flippant attitude was getting under his skin. And pissing him off. Why are you so trigger happy?

As opposed to what? Trigger un-happy? Adrian chuckled. Trigger sad?

Stop being a smart ass. You know what I mean.

Come on, Mike. Adrian glanced at his watch. 6:47 AM. We got till seven, at the latest. He dropped his watch hand and glared at his partner. Cut the fuckin hinges.

Mike jabbed his finger at the corpse on the floor. No bodies, Adrian. That’s the plan.

Adrian put his hands on his belt and gazed at his partner blankly. I guess the plan didn’t factor on this guy being early, did it?

It didn’t, Mike thought.

Adrian glanced at his wristwatch and sighed. Get back to work Mike, we’re running out of time. He turned and pointed at the guard’s body. I can’t take my bullet back. The dude’s gone… he turned and pointed at the safe. We still need what’s inside there. We got maybe twelve minutes before someone notices that they’re short a guard. He gestured towards the guard’s body. That dude’s got nine partners in this house. How long before they start looking for him?

Mike said, Fuck. Adrian was right; he needed to get back to the task at hand. He relit the torch and started cutting the hinges. Asshole.

Mike and Adrian were in the strong room in the basement of the building. In the middle of the room, a large safe sat buried in the floor, anchored by twenty-seven cubic feet of hydraulic cement. The old-style safe door faced up at Mike, its round chrome combination wheel staring accusatorily at him. Two chromium-hardened steel hinges held the safe door secure. Mike and Adrian needed a little black velvet box inside the safe and the only way to get to it was to cut the locks and the hinges, and lift the lid off. They had two problems.

Problem one: Made of six inch thick solid steel, the lid weighed about six hundred pounds. Not good.

Problem two: the box was alarmed with a pressure sensitive sensor. Any attempt to lift the top other than with the proper combination will trigger an alarm in the guard’s main central station. If the alarm trips, fifty seconds later nine private security guards will enter the display case room and fill Mike and Adrian full of bullets.

Double not good. Stealth was critical.

As he cut the hinges with his plasma torch, Mike ran through the upcoming escape in his head. It calmed his nerves and kept his mind from drifting back to the shooting and the slowly spreading puddle of blood on the floor a few feet away. The getaway was his favorite part of any job he did, and it showed in his work. There was no doubt about it: Mike liked stealing things. He liked the planning, he liked the excitement of executing the plans and he liked the pay and perks he got.

But more than anything, Mike loved the getaway. Nothing gave him a better sense of accomplishment than making a perfect escape. To him, everything else was foreplay.

He cut through the last hinge and stood the torch on the floor to let it cool. He grunted at Adrian, who stepped over the dead guard and lifted a black nylon utility bag off the floor. He brought it over to the safe and set it on the floor. He unzipped the bag and removed a number of small, super-strong graphite rods. Each rod had a threaded bolt on one end and four threaded holes on the other, bored at different angles. He handed the rods to Mike, who began screwing them together. After a minute or so they had assembled a pyramid shaped superstructure, four feet wide by five feet high.

Adrian reached into the bag and removed a round electromagnet that he fastened to the pyramid with a ½ inch diameter nylon rope. He tied a double overhand knot, making sure the magnet hung eight inches from the safe lid.